The Watchers Lighthouse Hikayeyi takip edin

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| INTERNAL USE ONLY - CLASSIFIED LEVEL 6|

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Description

00-143 is a classified lighthouse off the island of Douglas Point on Lake Lafarge, Northwest Territories, Canada. There are no reports of the initial builders of the lighthouse, but it has appeared in various records going back to the early 1700s. The lighthouse itself sits on an outcropping of rock roughly 700 meters above the island itself, situated on its southern shore. The lighthouse itself stands 99 meters tall, with several smaller buildings surrounding it. While the lighthouse has appeared in several works of dubious origin, the first and only reliable description of the interior comes from the Royal Land Grant Surveyor Walton Dobs, described in 1873.

Expedition

As I have been advised by her majesties expedition, I have made my way inland to Lake Lafarge from our outpost at Battleford. The journey was set on May 6th and has finally completed this May 21st, of our year the lord 1873. It has been a hard ride, but we have seen all the beauty this land has had to offer. I have arrived and found that the rumors of the Hudson Bay trappers was not just that. The lighthouse towers over the island on the center of the lake, and even through the ever present gloom of the storm hanging overhead, the brilliant green light shines from the top. To who they are warding I do not know - Samuelson, my guide, says there are tales in the natives tongue about the shining light across darkened waters for aeons, and waxed philosophical about the tools of creation. We are here, men of science, on a commission from our queen and our god - I will have no tales of creation or fate spun to me. There must be a scientific explanation to this, and as the new subjects of His Lord it is both my right and priviledge to bring both the rules of taxation and priviledge of reason to these people.

We had chosen to camp on the shore of Lake Lafarge on the night of the 21st, as we wished to see if the storm would pass, but alas it did not. Our horses were miserable and our ramshackle assembalage of tents on the shore did not protect us much from the winds coming off the lake. At daybreak of the third day the storm had yet to cease and a fog had settled over the lake, but we were low on provisions and days fishing on a cold and rainly lake shore had taken its tole on morale. In the morning I, Samuelson, and Simons rowed out unto the lake in an effort to make the crossing and begin the description requested from us for her majesty. As we rowed, the fog started to swell and the rain pattered down, but that did not cease us in our ability to navigate, as the sickly green glow of the light cut through the mist every thirty heartbeats, like the tick of a timepiece. This did not dampen our spirits, as a man left to idle waiting for any days will jump at the first piece of excitement.

We rowed for what felt like hours before we finally reached the sandy shore of the island. We had not seen sand on the previous day, so an argument broke out amongst us. Simons figured the lighthouse to be at least a mile away, but my math put that as us landing at the other end of the island, which I figured impossible. We shouted and bickered for a while, before the decision was made to portage the canoe the rest of the way. So the three of us got out into that sand, lifted the canoe above our heads, and begun to walk. The sand was a consistancy I have never since felt - silk like a fine linen, and warm. White with flecks of grey, and for a time, I could have thought we were in a desert. However, the heat here was only from the sand, and the air was still as frigid as it had been all the days before. The sand inclemented after a time(I daresay I cannot guess how long), and soon we were walking through moss, up a rocky slope. The fog however would not let up, and all we had to guide distance was the steadily brighter green light flashing above at the same 30 beat intervals. We found no tree or shrub on the incline, just a gently climbing hill covered in rocks and moss.

Suddenly, Simons, who was in the lead, stopped and swore. He had kicked a wooden post that had been lying in the moss, and after a few minutes of inspection we found the remains of a wooden fence. The nails were hand smithed and weathered, and most of the fence had been taken by both time and decay. Again, we broke into bickering - we had been aware of the Norsemen in Newfoundland, but had they made it here? The decay seemed to speak of a level of neglect the flashing in the air above refused. Agian, we hoisted the canoe and continued the treck, finally breaking out of the mist onto a rocky plateau. Above us, possibly 100 meters or more, rose the lighthouse. It seemed chiseled out of the rock itself, the white stone gleaming without a touch of paint. A neat but badly weathered door was set into the base, and windows with iron gratings and green glass lined the sides. This was no mere lighthouse, but a cathedral of wealth in desolate wilderness. To the left sat a smaller, wooden building with a collapsed roof, and to the right a outhouse who listed to one side. Neither building was adorned with decoration nor embellishment.

We chose to check the living quarters first, but time had not been kind to it. Scraps of cloth and hide lay strewn about, but every stick of furniture and personal affect was long gone. A collapsed stone chimny hung to the back, and plants had grown so thick even the ashes could not be located. The outhouse was not better, with the floor having rotted away long ago and fallen into the pit, now growing with vegetation. Our final target was the lighthouse itself. Samuelson knocked soundly several times on the door, but there was no call from within, other then the faint sound of some mechanism inside. He pushed open the door and - the racket! A metal chain with each link the size of a man twisted in the air, while various chains of different sizes rose and fell through holes in the floor. A well kept metal stairway ran the inside of the tower, spiraling upwards out of sight. With no recourse, we began to climb. Around and around we went, my reconning being a quarter slice of the sun. The stair was appropriate for our build and well made, and soon we had made it to a dividing ceiling between sections of the tower. Above, was chaos. Gears and chain, all loud and spinning. Everything showed signs of extreme wear, but it all worked. And the heat! Like feeling a forging furnace! Like nothing I have ever felt. We continued climbing, and made our way to the top.

The spindle was made of green glass, and the light inside produced so much heat that one felt sick standing in it. After two passes we all fled down towards the cooler bottom, another notch in the sun, and our legs hurt terribly. We exited, sat in the grass, and talked. The chains had to go somewhere, so there had to be a way down. After we had steeled our nerve, we entered again and found it, a hatch leading down. Simons went first this time, and we climbed down a ladder to a massive room. A giant wheel filled it and a man walked it, older than I have ever seen. When he saw Simons he cried out and said something in a language we didn't understand, but Simon staggered forward to meet him. We called out to him but Simon did not respond, instead begging to walk on the wheel. Then the man turned to us. His face was gone, worn away by the years. His eyes were empty sockets, his nose hollow, his teeth yellows and gaping. He spoke to us, and fear got our betters - we fled back up, with this thing following us. We got outside and dashed for the canoe, but the thing chased us onto the grass, commanding in that strange language. Samuelson pulled his black powder pistol on the thing, filled it, and fired a slug. The metal ball hit the thing in the chest, creating a hole the size of a cherry. It did not bleed, and we grabbed the canoe and ran - but we were fools. A mis-step, and we tumbled to the lake below. Simons was lost, and we rowed for shore.